


What We Know

by allonsy_gabriel



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boys Kissing, Childhood Friends, Cute Kids, Demisexual James Madison, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Growing Up Together, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, New Year's Kiss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: "What's your name, anyway?" Thomas asked.“James,” the kid said. “James Madison. It's spelled J-A-M-E-S. The ‘E’ is silent.”





	What We Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sanna_Black_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/gifts).



> Thank you to nackledamia for s w o o p i n g in and Helping Me Out
> 
> merry christmas, love. sorry it's late.  
> sorry your real presents haven't arrived yet.  
> i love you.

Thomas Jefferson met James Madison during morning recess on the first day of first grade at Charlottesville Elementary in 1998.

Thomas was trying to use the swings—because swings were the _coolest_ , obviously—and some little bitty preschooler had already climbed on the last swing and was just sitting there, swinging!

“Excuse me,” Thomas said in his most polite voice, “But these swings are for the big kids. The little kid swings are over there.”

The kid stared at him for a moment before stopping his swing and crossing his arms. “But I _am_ a big kid,” he said softly. “I'm six years old!”

Thomas laughed. “No you're not,” he said, “You're probably only four or five. Lying is bad, y’know. My momma told me so.”

“I am six, I promise,” the kid argued.

“Well then, you must just be shrimpy! A shrimpy shrimp!” Thomas said, looking the kid over again. He was wearing a grey sweater over a yellow t-shirt with a T-Rex on it. Thomas knew it was a T-Rex because he recognized it from the dinosaur book he'd gotten for his birthday. “What's your name, anyway?” he asked.

“James,” the kid said. “James Madison. It's spelled J-A-M-E-S. The ‘E’ is silent.”

“What grade are you in?” Thomas asked. James fiddled with his jeans.

“I'm in first,” he replied quietly. “I didn't do kindergarten. My mommy said I didn't have to if I didn't want to.”

“No wonder you're a shrimpy shrimp!” Thomas shouted, “You’re supposed to be in kindergarten!”

“No, I’m _not_ ,” James insisted, finally climbing off the swing and stomping over to Thomas. “My mommy said I didn’t have to do kindergarten, so I’m _not_ . You should stop being such a—such a _bully_.”

Thomas gasped. “I am _not_ a bully!” he shouted indignantly. All he’d wanted to do was _swing_! It wasn’t his fault that James Madison was teeny tiny and supposed to be in kindergarten!

“Yes, you _are_ ,” James retorted. “You’re being mean to me right now, which is what _bullies_ do.”

Thomas was panicking. He wasn’t a bully! He wasn’t! He was _nice_ . His momma _always_ said so, always said what a nice young man he was. “I’m not a bully!” he said. “I’m nice!”

James glared up at him and narrowed his eyes. “Oh yeah?” he taunted, “Then _prove it_.”

Thomas only had one idea for what could do. He could do the thing his momma always had him do with his sisters after a fight, to make sure they all knew they loved each other.

It was the nicest thing Thomas could think of, besides giving James his Goldfish Crackers at snack time, and there was _no way_ Thomas was doing that.

He pressed a quick kiss to James’ cheek before wrapping him up in a hug.

James froze up for a moment before his arms came up to wrap around Thomas’ shoulders.

A moment passed before the two boys pulled apart, large smiles on each of their faces. “Y’know,” Thomas began, “Since you didn’t do kindergarten, you probably don’t have any friends, which is the _worst_. So, we’re going to be best friends. Okay?”

James was quiet for a moment, fiddling with the fabric of his jeans, before smiling up at Thomas. “Okay,” he agreed.

&&&

If there was one thing Thomas had learned since becoming James’ best friend two years ago, it was that James was sick a _lot_.

He never, ever got perfect attendance because he always had to stay home. He always kept tissues and hand sanitizer with him. His nose was always red, and there were cough drops in all of his jacket pockets.

That didn’t make him any less cool.

James was the coolest person Thomas knew. He was super smart—he had the best grade in reading class, even better than Thomas (but Thomas was better at science)—and had a poster of Middle Earth on his wall. He also had fake swords that he and Thomas got to play with as long as they were careful, and he was pretty much an expert on dinosaurs.

Most of the time when James got sick, Thomas would collect his missed work and bicycle to his house at the end of the day, and they’d eat a snack and do their math and then read whatever books they were into at the moment. When they were done with school stuff, they would get out the swords and all of James’ dinosaur action figures and play dino-war.

But not today.

“Can I at least go up to his room?” Thomas pleaded, “Please, Mrs. Madison? I'll be very quiet, I promise. I'll just read my book or play on my Game Boy or something. I won't wake Jemmy up, I swear.”

The woman in the doorway peered down at him for a moment before sighing. “Alright,” she finally relented. “But I expect you to keep that promise, understand? He needs his rest.”

Thomas beamed up at Mrs. Madison as she let him inside, rushing down the hall to James’ room.

James didn't look so good.

His nose was redder than usual, his lips were chapped, and his skin seemed kind of grey.

All in all, Thomas hated it. Why did _James_ have to get sick all the time? Why not any of the _other_ kids at school? Why couldn't stupid Aaron Burr get sick?

Anyone but _James._

Thomas sat himself down in the beanbag chair in the corner—not the dinosaur one, that one was James’, but the one with all the animals on it—and pulled out _The Hobbit_.

He tried to lose himself in the story, tried not to dwell on the boy in the bed, sniffling and coughing in his sleep.

That worked about as well as expected.

Thomas gave up on reading fifteen minutes later. For as much as he loved books, he couldn't focus when James looked like death slightly warmed over.

He paced around the room, looking over at James every few steps.

Thomas was about to rip his hair out in frustration when his pacing and inner turmoil was interrupted by a sharp cough and bed springs creaking.

Thomas whirled around to face the noise and was greeted by the sight of James, blearily rubbing his eyes. “Thomas?” he muttered sleepily. “‘S that you?”

“It's me, Jem,” Thomas said, stopping next to James’ bed and staring down at his friend. “Do you feel okay? Should I go get your mom? Do you need soup or something?”

“I'm fine, Thomas,” James mumbled, pushing himself upright in his bed. “How long have you been here?”

Thomas looked up at the clock above James’ bed. “Only an hour and a half,” he replied. “Not too long.”

“Why didn't you just go home?” James asked. Thomas huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Because I'm your best friend, obviously,” he explained, “I wasn’t just going to leave you here alone.”

“Well I'm glad you stayed,” James said. His words dissolved into more coughing. He scooted over a bit in his bed and pattered the spot next to him. “Tell me what happened at school today.”

Thomas quickly crawled into bed with the other boy, already gesticulating wildly as he recounted the tale of John Adams face planting when he fell off the monkey bars during recess.

He hoped James would be well enough to come back to school the next day.

&&&

The summer of 2001 was something straight out of a coming of age novel. Days were spent out in the forests and pastures behind their houses, taking notes on the different plants and animals and tracks they found, building forts in the little clearings between the trees behind Thomas’ house, and swimming in the large pond behind James’.

Thomas was in his swim trunks, standing on top of the large rock at one end of the pond with his hands on his hips. “I’m the king of the world!” he shouted.

James peered up at him from the water. “What does that make me?” he asked, squinting in the sunshine.

“You’re… my most trusted advisor! Or-or my vice-king! Like the vice president, y’know, but with a king!” Thomas enthused, grinning like a maniac. He jumped off the rock, tucking his knees up to his chest and squealing as he hit the water with a splash.

James was the one shrieking a moment later as Thomas grabbed his ankle from under the water and tugged him down.

The both popped back up a moment later, sputtering and laughing. “You-you’re such a _jerk_! Is that any way to treat your vice-king?” James yelled between peals of laughter, splashing Thomas best he could and falling even further into hysterics as Thomas screeched, holding his hands in front of his face.

“Oh, you are _on_ , Madison!” Thomas shouted back, kicking wildly so that even more water would fly up into James’ face.

The war was on.

Both sides fought long and hard, splashing as mightily as they could, swimming beneath the water and pinching at the other’s sides, paddling to the edge of the pond and hiding behind trees and rocks, only to launch themselves back into the water when the other wasn’t looking, but in the end, Thomas had the upper hand. While James was nowhere as small as he had been in first grade, he was still sort of tiny and had about the same amount of muscle as a new kitten.

Thomas finally came up behind him, tickling at his sides until James yelled, “Mercy! Mercy! Thomas—Thomas _please_ , lemme go!”

Thomas finally relented, swimming around James and popping up in front of him. He was laughing, his normally ginormous hair flat against his head and dripping, and James thought he looked ridiculous.

He told Thomas as much.

“You’re just mad ‘cos I beat you in the Great Splash War,” Thomas said haughtily. James scowled at him.

“You’re so mean. Why are you my best friend?” he asked. Thomas fluttered his eyelashes and James fought back a giggle.

“‘Cos you _looooove me_ ,” Thomas teased, and James huffed.

“Unfortunately,” he grumbled. “Come on, let’s go inside. I’m cold.”

Thomas looked like he was about to protest, but noticed James’ shivering—he hadn’t been lying, he really _was_ cold—and instead grabbed James wrist and swam to the edge of the pond. “Okay, here you go,” he said, wrapping James in both of their towels. “Let’s go.”

“Thomas, you gave me both of the towels,” James pointed out dryly, attempting to remove one of the towels and hand it to Thomas, but Thomas stopped him.

“I know,” he replied, “But I’m not the one who gets sick every other week. If you’re wet and cold, you’ll get sick, but now you’re going to be warm and dry. Basically, I just saved your life.”

James rolled his eyes. “You’re going to be cold,” he said.

“I’ll be fine, Jemmy. I’m Thomas freaking Jefferson, King of the World, remember?” Thomas countered before grabbing James’ wrist again and pulling him back towards the house.

**

They built a pillow fort in James’ living room, stood one of James’ old stuffed dinosaurs outside the entrance as a guard, popped two bags of popcorn, and hid away with their Game Boys and books.

“Hey, James?” Thomas asked, looking up from Super Mario to meet his best friend’s eyes. “We're always going to be best friends, right? No matter what?”

James glanced at Thomas from over his book. “Yup,” he said simply.

The fort was quiet, and then…

“That's _it_?”

“What else do you want me to say, Thomas?” James asked, putting down his book—it was, of course, about dinosaurs, and Thomas was surprised that there were still dinosaur books at the library that James hadn't read.

“That, of course, we'll always be friends, that we'll always be together, or something like that!” Thomas said, waving his hands around wildly.

James giggled.

“ _What?!_ ” Thomas demanded. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you sound like you're asking me to marry you or something!” James said with a grin.

Thomas made a “pfft” sound. “Don't be silly,” he replied. “But, seriously, ‘yup’?”

“I didn't think I needed to say anything else,” James explained. “I thought it was obvious, Thomas.”

Thomas’ mouth snapped shut and his face felt hot. “Oh,” he said.

“Yeah,” James said before thrusting the book he was holding under Thomas’ nose. “Look at this picture. It's called a _tanystropheus_ —”

“It looks funny,” Thomas interrupted as he scooted closer to James, who giggled and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah it does.”

&&&

“What do you _mean_ we're not in any of the same classes?” James asked as he looked at his and Thomas’ schedules.

“We're just… _not_ ,” Thomas explained, sounding just as defeated.

“But we're always in the same class!” James shouted. Thomas furrowed his eyebrows together and looked over his best friend. James _never_ shouted. _Thomas_ was the loud one, the one who was always being told to use his inside voice, not James.

“Jemmy?” Thomas asked, placing a hand on James’ shoulder. “Are you okay? It'll be okay. We still have lunch together, and we'll join all the same clubs, and you can still come over every day.”

James ran a hand through his hair. “I'm fine,” he said. “Just used to having your annoying face with me all the time.”

“My face is _not_ annoying.”

“It kinda is.”

“Yeah, well, your _mom_ is annoying,” Thomas retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

James rolled his eyes. “You love my mom,” he pointed out. “She always makes you the good kind of mac and cheese.”

Thomas sighed. “You’re right,” he admitted. He was quiet for another moment while he looked over James’ schedule for their first year of middle school. “Hey, what instrument are you playing in orchestra?”

“Flute, why?” James asked.

“‘Cos I'm playing the violin, that's why! And so I'm in the strings and percussion class, and you're in wind instruments!” Thomas said.

James groaned. “I thought there was only one orchestra class for the sixth graders!” he said.

“Me too!” Thomas agreed. “This is… Crap. This is crap. It's like the school conspired against us!”

James nodded with all the solemnity that a ten-year-old is capable of. “They can't get away with this,” he added.

“We'll just have to be _even better best friends_ ,” Thomas said enthusiastically.

James stuck out his hand. “Shake on it?” he offered.

“Duh,” Thomas replied. He brought his own hand up to his mouth and stuck out his tongue when James yelled,

“ _Wait_!”

“What?” Thomas asked, but he hadn't put his tongue back in his mouth so it sounded more like ‘ _whuh_ ’. “It's a spit swear!” (‘‘ _S speh sair_!’)

“ _Germs_ , Thomas. It's already almost flu season, I don't need extra germs all over me,” James reminded him.

Thomas drew his tongue back into his mouth and nodded. “Do you have hand sanitizer, then?” he asked. “I think I got spit on my hand on accident.”

James pulled a little bottle of Purell out of his pocket and squirted both of their hands.

A moment later, they shook.

**

“James, I think I'm in love!” Thomas shouted one day as he shut the door to his room.

James about dropped his backpack.

“With who?” he asked, ignoring the weird little feeling curling up in his stomach.

“Martha Wayles,” Thomas announced, all but swooning.

“Martha Wayles?” James repeated. “From academic team?”

“Yes!” Thomas said, flopping down into James’ lap. “She's so beautiful, Jemmy! Her hair is so shiny, and it looks so soft! She's nice and funny and smart! I'm going to ask her to the Christmas dance.”

James stared down at his friend. Thomas had never mentioned any crushes before. James wasn't prepared for this. What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to agree? Tell Thomas to go for it? Help him practice? _What_?

“I need a suit. A nice, fancy suit. Like a tuxedo. I've got to look my best, get my haircut—”

“Your hair looks good like it is,” James interrupted. “Plus, she not going to say no to you because of your hair. She probably won't say no at all.”

“You really think that?” Thomas asked.

“I really do.”

**

James was right.

He hated himself for wishing he wasn't.

**

Martha was nice. Really nice. Too nice, in James’ opinion, but she made Thomas happy, and James decided that was what was important.

Her family was on their way to the beach. She'd said goodbye to Thomas the previous day, kissed him on the cheek and buried her face in his shoulder. “I'll be back soon,” she'd said. “It's only a week.”

They'd been dating for a year and a half. Thomas had had her over for Christmas that year and given her a necklace with their initials on it. Even James had decided that she probably wasn't evil.

Martha Wayles died in a car accident on June 27th, 2004.

Thomas Jefferson was sure a piece of him died with her.

“Thomas, open the door,” James said. “I have mac and cheese and vanilla ice cream.”

Thomas sighed, burying his face in his pillow.

“Thomas Jefferson, open the damn door,” James said.

Thomas pulled himself out of bed and shuffled to the door.

There was James, holding a Tupperware that smelled of Mrs. Madison’s good mac and cheese, a carton of ice cream, and two spoons. “Thanks,” he said, sitting himself down on Thomas’ bed. “Here. You look like you haven't eaten in weeks.”

Thomas wiped his eyes, trying to remove any evidence of the sobbing mess he'd been moments before James’ arrival.

“How are you feeling?” James asked, handing Thomas a fork.

Thomas just shrugged in reply.

James didn't say anything. It was okay, though. Thomas didn't want him to say anything.

Finally, Thomas rested his head on James’ shoulder, and James sat still as he felt Thomas’ body wrack with sobs next to him.

“I miss her,” he whispered.

“I know you do.”

It wasn't fair. It _wasn't._ Thomas was barely thirteen. He wasn't supposed to have to deal with this yet.

James didn't say anything else.

He didn't need to.

That was the thing with James, Thomas mused. He always managed to get his point across, even when he didn't say a word.

“Thank you,” Thomas eventually said, wiping his tears on the hood of James’ jacket.

James simply nodded.

His eyes said everything he didn’t.

_Of course._

_Always._

Thomas fell back onto his bed, pulling James down with him.

There was nothing odd about it, nothing weird. They'd been sharing beds since their first sleepover, when Thomas had had a nightmare and crawled into James’ bed with him, hugging the younger boy like a teddy bear all through the night.

They did the same thing now, with Thomas curled around James, gripping him like a vice.

For the first time since Martha died, Thomas slept soundly.

&&&

The Jeffersons were moving.

Thomas’ father, some high ranking banking official, had been offered a job in Paris.

Paris.

Paris, _France_.

Not only were the Jeffersons moving—was _Thomas_ moving—but they were moving to a different country.

“You're kidding,” James said, narrowing his eyes as Thomas delivered the news. “There's absolutely no way you're _moving to France_. You don't even speak French!”

“They say the best way to learn a new language is to immerse yourself in it,” Thomas replied, a melancholy smirk on his face.

“It's our first year of high school,” James needlessly reminded him, “You can't leave _now_.”

“Tell that to my dad,” Thomas muttered. “It'll be okay, Jem. You have my email, right? We won't even have to wait for real letters.”

James sighed and nodded. “I suppose,” he conceded. “It still sucks.”

“Yeah,” Thomas agreed, “It really fucking does.”

The two boys sat in silence.

For once, neither of them had anything to say.

**

They spent that summer as if it was their last, doing all the things they'd always wanted to do.

They went to the beach together, playing arcade games on the boardwalk after swimming all day, and shared an overpriced ice cream.

They went to the carnival and rode all the rides, over and over until James threw up his massive turkey leg and they decided to call it a day.

They went to the zoo and oh’d and ah’d over the animals—James liked the meerkats and the birds, whilst Thomas was partial to the grizzly bears and the tarantulas.

It was perfect.

And then it was over.

James stood at the airport, fighting back tears as he wrapped his arms around his best friend. “You could always live with me, you know,” he suggested, not for the first time. “My mom would make you the good mac and cheese every night.”

Thomas laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. He'd just turned fourteen in April, James thirteen in March, and already he felt as if he were a bitter, world-weary adult.

He boarded his flight.

James stared at the plane until he couldn't see it any longer.

**

They called every night and emailed constantly. James heard nigh on daily lectures about the price of their phone bill.

He ignored it.

It wasn't as if they couldn't afford it, anyway.

School started again in August. Even more than that, _high school_ started in August.

For the first time since first grade, James was alone.

Almost.

He wasn't entirely without friends. There was still Aaron Burr, who'd drifted in and out of Thomas’ and James’ shared orbit since elementary. Aaron introduced James to Dolley Payne, who quickly rose through the ranks to the position of James’ second best friend.

They were _not_ dating, no matter what John Adams said.

Halfway through the freshman year, a new face appeared.

Alexander Hamilton sat in front of James in Mr. Washington's Civics course, and for the first time in James’ life, he was glad Thomas wasn't there. He could already tell how the two of them would get on—like oil and water.

He shuddered at the thought.

Hamilton quickly fell into step with John Laurens and Hercules Mulligan, becoming their third musketeer and the mouthpiece of their little ragtag posse.

James knew of Laurens and Mulligan mostly from rumors and speculation.

Laurens’ father was a city councilman with more money than Scrooge McDuck, and his mother was Mr. Laurens’ Puerto Rican secretary who’d fallen into bed with him one too many times. As for John Laurens himself, he was known for getting into more fights than anyone else in the school combined and being gay.

Openly, outedly gay.

Mulligan wasn't shrouded in quite as much controversy, only really known for being loud in class, starting on the football team, and allegedly having an orgy with four senior cheerleaders, despite only being a sophomore. He wasn't gay, but there had been rumors of a boy being at that orgy, too.

James watched in fascination as Hamilton easily slipped into their ranks, and watched with even more fascination as his hand slipped into John's back pocket.

**

Thomas laughed over the phone, and James could imagine it, clear as day. The way his eyes would crease, his nose would scrunch up, and his hair would bounce from the force of his laughter.

“When are you coming home?” James asked, just as he always did toward the end of their calls.

Thomas, in turn, responded in his usual way.

“As soon as I can.”

**

“ _Call me as soon as you can. This is an emergency.”_

James had, apparently, received the email at 10:30 that morning.

It was now 3:30.

“ _This is an emergency._ ”

The other end of the line—Thomas’ end of the line—rang once, twice, three times, and James was on the verge of full-blown panic by the time Thomas finally picked up.

“Are you alright? Thomas? Are you okay?” James stammered before Thomas could even say hello.

“I'm fine, Jem.”

Thomas sounded tinny and deflated through the phone.

“But you said—”

“It's not that kind of emergency,” Thomas explained.

James sighed in relief. “Then what kind of—”

“I kissed Lafayette,” Thomas interrupted quickly.

Lafayette was a new friend of Thomas’, the one James had heard the most about, with more names than James cared to even bother trying to remember.

Lafayette was a guy.

“You're kidding,” James replied, his voice empty.

“I'm really, really not.”

James didn't know what to say, so he settled on the only truly coherent thought that came to mind.

“But you're not gay,” he said flatly.

“I know!”

“Then it was a mistake—”

“I promise you, Jemmy, it was definitely intentional.”

“Did you… Enjoy it?”

Silence.

“Yes.”

“What does that make you, exactly?” James asked.

He could practically see Thomas biting his lip. “Bisexual, I think,” he finally replied.

James ran his free hand through his hair. “Are you happy?” he eventually asked.

“I think so,” Thomas answered, his voice lacking any of its usual gusto or surety.

“Then I'm alright with it,” James said. “I mean, you're still the same, right? Still my best friend?”

“Of course!” Thomas rushed to assure him.

“Then it doesn't matter to me if you want to have sex with your mac and cheese,” James said, an air of finality in his words.

For a moment, Thomas didn't respond, and then,

“Thank you.”

&&&

James was sitting in Pre-AP English II, listening to Mrs. Wheatley go over the difference between the three rhetorical appeals, when the door burst open.

“Honey, I'm home!” a familiar voice called. “What'd I miss?”

Thomas Jefferson swanned into the room, dressed in a magenta button up, dark purple pants, and a fuchsia scarf.

James about fell out of his chair in his haste to stand. “Thomas?” he said, doing his best to avoid tripping as he weaved his way through the maze of desks. He failed, stumbling over two chairs and a backpack, knocking over a box of tissues, and bumping into the wall. “You—what are you doing here?” he asked.

Thomas didn’t respond immediately, too busy laughing at James’ pain to reply. “Going to English class, obviously. Keep up, Jem,” he eventually said, his voice teasing but his smile was just as wide as James’.

“Get a room!” someone—John Adams, probably—shouted, and Thomas’ smile only grew wider.

“I brought a friend,” he said, and James suddenly noticed the other kid standing in the doorway.

“Thomas,” he said quietly, “Not that I’m not completely thrilled to see you, but did you _kidnap_ a _French person_?”

The new kid grinned and shook his head. “Non, Thomas did not steal me,” he said, sticking his hand out. “I am here on an exchange program, oui?”

He had a thick accent and a bright smile, and, if you squinted a bit and tilted your head just slightly to the left, he looked _exactly_ like Thomas. James tentatively shook his hand.

“You must be James,” he continued. “I am Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, but you can call me Lafayette. I have heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” James replied, glancing at Thomas, who was still beaming.

So this was the boy who Thomas had kissed? Had dated?

James didn’t know the name of the feeling curling in his stomach, but he didn’t like it.

“Of course!” Lafayette assured him, and Thomas looked like he was about to add something when Mrs. Wheatley cleared her throat.

“Boys,” she said. “Since you already seemed to have made friends, why don’t you two go sit down next to James, okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” James piped up before either of the other two boys could speak. He quickly ushered Thomas back to their seats. He opened up his notebook and tore out a clean page.

‘ _What lunch do you have?_ ’ He scribbled quickly, and discreetly slipped the paper back onto Thomas’ desk.

‘ _First. I’ve got alg. II fourth hour_ ’ came Thomas’ reply.

‘ _I’ve got first, too. Meet me outside the cafeteria?_ ’

‘ _Of course_.’

**

“So you guys just decided to _move back from France_ , with _an actual French person_ , and you just _didn’t tell me_ ?” James questioned as they moved through the lunch line. Lafayette had second lunch, and so it was simply him and Thomas. Just like always. Just like it was _supposed_ to be. He raised an eyebrow. “What, was all that just _so forgettable_ that it slipped your mind Monday night?”

“It was a _surprise_!” Thomas insisted.

James huffed and rolled his eyes. “Well, you surprised me. Congratulations.”

Thomas pouted slightly and nudged James’ shoulder. “Are you mad?” he asked.

James sighed. “No,” he conceded.

Thomas smiled, and James noticed the slight shift in his posture, the way he straightened up just the tiniest bit and relaxed. “Do you know what’s for lunch?” he asked, reaching over James’ head—Thomas had gotten taller in the last year; James had _not_ —to grab a tray.

“It’s chicken nugget Tuesday,” James replied. He reached for a tray of his own, but Thomas tapped him on the shoulder.

“I grabbed two on accident,” he said, handing James the plate.

James nodded his thanks and took the tray, and the two boys easily fell back into the flow of friendly banter they’d been accustomed to their whole lives.

To James, it felt as if the world had clicked back into place. Everything was as it should be, with Thomas at his side.

**

Thomas was nervous, which was in and of itself _ridiculous_ because he didn’t _get nervous_.

And yet, here he was, his hands shaking in his pockets as he leaned against the wall of James’ bedroom.

He’d been back in the States for a week now, and, finally, he and James had found a clear day on their schedules to just _hang out_.

At least, he told himself the only reason they were just now hanging out was because of cluttered schedules.

“So, uh, how’ve you been?” he stuttered out. James turned to look at him, the expression on his face somewhere between concerned and confused.

“Good, I suppose,” he said. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Thomas assured him.

James obviously didn’t believe him, but he didn’t mention it. “Is Lafayette coming over?” he asked instead, flopping down on his bed.

His dinosaur sheets were gone, but the stuffed dinosaur he’d had for so long was still propped up against his pillow.

“No,” Thomas replied, “He’s off with Laurens and Mulligan and the new kid.”

“Alexander’s not new, not anymore. He was here last year,” James said.

Thomas didn’t miss the meaning behind James’ words. _Alexander was here. You weren’t_.

“I’m sorry I left,” he blurted out. “I-I didn’t want to, but—”

“Thomas, it’s okay. I get it. It’s not like you can just _not_ go with your family when they move away,” James cut in. He patted the spot next to him. “That’s not important anymore, anyway. You’re back now.”

“I’m back now,” Thomas agreed, sitting down next to James. He rested his head against the younger boy’s shoulder. The movement was familiar, it was comforting, and Thomas was suddenly struck with the realization of _just how much he’d missed it_.

Just how much he’d missed _James_.

“I missed you too,” James said, and Thomas looked up at him with a puzzled expression before he realized he must’ve said that part out loud.

“I’m sure you did just fine,” Thomas said with a lopsided grin. “You and Dolley Payne seem to have gotten close. When are you gonna ask her out?”

He knew he was sidestepping the issue, but he didn’t care.

“Never, I think,” James replied. “I don’t like her like that. It’d be like dating my cousin.”

Thomas shrugged and nodded. “I suppose. I mean, we are in Virginia, not Arkansas,” he said with a smirk.

“What about you and Lafayette?” James asked. “You never really explained it. Are you two, uh, a thing?”

Thomas snorted. “Nah,” he said, scooting ever so closer to James. “Don’t get me wrong, Lafayette is great—like, really great—but we just didn’t click, y’know? I mean, it was fun, yeah—the guy’s a great kisser—but there just wasn’t anything _there_.”

James didn’t say anything.

He never had to.

God, Thomas knew he had it bad. He _knew it_ . He knew he’d probably always had at least a _little_ crush on James, but now… fuck, it was getting out of hand.

He also knew he was lucky to even have James as a friend. He was loud and obnoxious and arrogant and—

Suffice to say, James deserved better.

James deserved better, and now he had his chance to _do better_ . Thomas had left for a _year_ . He’d left, flown off to France, fucked around with boys _and_ girls and let James sit on the back burner. James had every reason to forget about Thomas. He could very well say, _hey, I have a new best friend now._

“Seriously, Thomas, are you okay?” James asked.

Thomas nodded.

“Lying is bad, y’know. My momma told me so,” James said softly. Thomas chuckled softly.

“Man, I was _seven_. Are you ever gonna let me live that one down?” he asked, sitting up so he could look James in the eye.

“Nope. Now, what’s up?”

Thomas shrugged. “It’s stupid.”

“I wouldn’t know that. You haven’t told me what _it_ is.”

“We’re, uh, we’re still best friends, right?” Thomas said in a rush, his words all jumbling together.

James furrowed his eyebrows. “Of course,” he reassured Thomas. “Why… Why would we not be?”

“Because I left,” Thomas replied.

James rolled his eyes. “And now you’re back,” he reminded him, quirking an eyebrow. Thomas seemed to get the message, and didn’t mention the subject again for the rest of the night.

**

It was as if Thomas never left. They immediately fell back into sync, the rhythm and beat of their friendship picking up exactly where it left off.

Thomas would bump shoulders with James in the hallways. James would squeeze his arm before a test. They effortlessly swapped notes, books, folders, _anything_. They worked together on the debate team, on student council, in academic team, completing each other’s sentences and presenting an impenetrable defense whenever questioned. They were inseparable, unshakable, attached at the hip, able to communicate with a quirk of an eyebrow or the twitch of a lip.

James Madison and Thomas Jefferson.

Just like always.

**

James was pouring over his biology notes when Alexander Hamilton plopped himself down on his desk. “Hey, James,” he said, tapping on James’ head as if _sitting on his notes_ hadn’t already gotten his attention.

James looked up slowly. “Yes, Alexander?” he asked dryly.

Alexander, never one for beating around the bush, just grinned and said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were gay? We did that project together last year, man, I thought we were friends! You could’ve told me, I wouldn’t have judged or anything—”

James found himself choking on air. “Be-Because I’m _not gay_! What the hell, Hamilton?” he snapped, his last words dissolving into a fit of coughs.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Alexander so confused.

“But you and Jefferson… Man, I could’ve _sworn_ , you two look at each like a couple of love sick fools. I mean, no offense or anything, but your heart eyes are the _opposite_ of subtle,” he argued.

“It’s called _friendship_ , Alexander,” James replied dryly. “Just because we’re _close_ doesn’t mean we’re—we’re _doing anything_.”

Alexander pursed his lips. “If you say so,” he said, disbelief clear in his words. “But, lemme tell ya, John and I were ‘ _just friends_ ’, too, and now, well—”

“I do _not_ need to know of the—the _exploits_ you get up to with _John Laurens_ ,” James interrupted. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to _study_.”

Alexander hopped off James’ desk and scampered away, probably to go harass some other poor, innocent bystander, leaving James alone with his thoughts.

He wasn’t gay.

 _He didn’t like Thomas_.

**

Fucking Alexander fucking Hamilton.

James wasn’t really the fighting type, but if he _were_ , well…

He just _had_ to put the idea in James’ head, just _had_ to bring it up.

And so here James was, cautiously scrolling through pictures of shirtless dudes at eleven p.m. like some creepy _pervert_ , just to prove something he _already knew_.

 _He wasn’t gay_.

He wasn’t gay, and so he couldn’t like Thomas. Simple. Problem solved. Now, it was time for James to delete his search history, close his laptop, and repress the memories of this experience for the _rest of his life_.

 _Fuck_.

&&&

It was 2009, and James was trying to figure out the everloving hell he was going to wear to prom.

He didn’t even _want_ to go to prom, but Thomas was going, and he didn’t want to go alone, and so here was James, standing in a Men’s Warehouse getting fitted for a fucking _suit_.

He hated this. Really, really hated this. The whole measuring thing. He _knew_ he was tiny, barely 5’4 and weighing 102 pounds sopping wet, he didn’t need some old dude sticking his hand between his legs to measure his damn inseam to know, oh yeah, _he was really small_.

The suit itself wasn’t _horrible_. Grey, with a yellow pocket square and tie to match. It wasn’t anything flashy or eye-catching, just a nice suit.

Thomas was acting like the whole thing was _Say Yes to the Dress_ or something, sprawled out in a chair and throwing casual comments out about the pattern of James’ button up or the cut of his slacks.

He’d already been fitted, of course. His suit was in a bag that was resting across his lap.

It was fucking _magenta_ . James didn’t know why he expected anything else. Magenta and tightly fitted, with a big, white bowtie and a coat that practically dragged the floor. James didn’t know how the hell Thomas pulled it off, only that he somehow _did_.

**

Prom was fun. They went with Dolley, Aaron, and his girlfriend, Theodosia. Thomas wore aviators and brought a damn _cane_ because he was incapable of being anything other than a drama queen.

James awkwardly swayed around the “dance floor” with Dolley during the slow songs, bobbed his head _even more awkwardly_ during the faster songs, and fell down laughing when Thomas started doing the dance to _Single Ladies_.

“Stop, stop, stop,” James said, wiping his eyes, “Y-You’re not doing it right. You’re supposed to use opposite arms and legs, not—not the _same ones_!”

Thomas glared at him. “Okay then,” he drawled, “If you know so much better, why don’t _you_ do it?”

James immediately went red. “No.”

“Jaaaaaaames—”

“No, Thomas.”

“ _Jemmy_ —” Thomas whined.

“ _Thomas_ —” James mocked.

Dolley whacked him on the shoulder. “You can’t critique Thomas’ moves and then not show us yours,” she pointed out.

Thomas beamed at her. “Dolley, beautiful, wonderful Dolley, light of my life—”

“Shut up, Jefferson,” Dolley cut him off his an eye roll. “Now, James. Go. Dance, before the song ends.”

James scowled at them. “Traitors, the both of you,” he grumbled before stepping out into the center of the circle they’d created. He half-heartedly did the dance before stepping back out.

“Booooo,” Dolley said. “You’re no fun. _Thomas_ will dance with me, won’t you, Thomas?”

Thomas smirked and nodded, leading Dolley back out onto the dance floor, leaving James by the wall to watch his two best friends enjoy the night.

**

It was getting close to the end of the night, and you could feel it in the room. The DJ—if the janitor running the sound system could even be called that—gone back to slow songs—that new _Romeo and Juliet_ one by Taylor Swift and something called _I’m Yours_ —the partygoers were beginning to flag, and James was _exhausted_.

He was leaning against the wall, a glass of punch in hand. He was waiting for everyone to finish dancing so they could head home. He was going to spend the night at Thomas’, already had a bag in Thomas’ car, and couldn’t wait to raid his best friend’s cupboard for the salt and vinegar chips he kept stocked specifically for James.

He was just about to excuse himself from the party altogether when who but Thomas himself somehow materialized in front of him. “C’mon, Jem,” he urged, tugging on James’ sleeve. “Dance with me! We haven’t danced together all night!”

James sighed but reluctantly followed his best friend out onto the floor. How Thomas seemed to never run out of energy, James would never understand, but _Halo_ was on now, Beyonce blasting over the speakers, and if James _had_ to dance, he was glad it was to this.

Thomas held his left hand and guided his right to his own shoulder. “Why am I the girl?” James asked.

“Because you can’t lead for shit, Jemmy, and you know it,” Thomas replied, placing his free hand on James’ waist and drawing him nearer.

James’ face felt so hot he swore you could probably fry an egg on it.

“Relax, Jem,” Thomas whispered, pulling James a hair closer. “If Hamilton can get away with shoving his tongue down Laurens’ throat, we can dance as friends.”

James remained stiff at first but gradually loosened up as they glided around the room.

They weren't the only ones. Alexander was, as Thomas said, standing in the corner, with John all but pinning him to the wall. Lafayette was resting his head against Hercules’ chest—they'd gotten together about two months after Lafayette had arrive—and miscellaneous other couples drifted across the floor.

The feeling in the air was hard to define. There was excitement, sure, but also a bit melancholy, a touch of nostalgic whimsy.

Thomas seemed to be feeling it, too. “We're almost done with all of this,” he muttered. “In a couple months, we'll be in college. Can you believe it?”

“Not really,” James replied quietly.

The air was thick, and when James looked at Thomas he didn't see the suave eighteen year old, full of bravado and confidence, but instead a little boy who'd cried on James’ shoulder and comforted him when he was sick and looked at dinosaur books with him.

“We'll be on our own,” he said. “You and me.”

“That’s the plan,” James agreed. They were both going to the University of Virginia, Thomas for architecture and James for education.

“You're not worried, are you?” Thomas asked.

“Of course I'm worried,” James replied. “But I know it'll be okay. You and me, right?”

 

Thomas resisted the urge to pull James closer, to gather him in his arms and keep him there. Instead, he smiled and echoed, “You and me.”

He'd asked James to dance, thinking they'd sway for a good thirty seconds before ducking out, but instead he'd been leading James around the room for at least three songs.

Thomas ignored the weird flipping feeling in his stomach.

God, he loved James. Loved him more than he knew what to do with. It was like Martha, all the same childish giddiness and infatuation, but it was also more than that, a sort of bone-deep longing to just be with James, in any sense of the words.

James rested his head against Thomas’ chest, and Thomas felt his heart stutter, skipping a beat before pounding at double time, tattooing his ribs with love, love for James Madison.

He didn't show it.

Instead, he looped an arm around James’ shoulders. “Let's head home, yeah?” he suggested. James nodded, and they quickly said their goodbyes before heading out to Thomas’ car.

**

Graduation was somehow both an exciting and somber affair. Thomas tied for Valedictorian with Alexander, and James came in second with Salutatorian, simply because he’d missed too many days at home sick to be Valedictorian.

Both of their families celebrated in Thomas’ backyard, their fathers lighting up the grill while their mothers sat out salads and sides.

“We did it,” Thomas said as he sat on a lawn chair, smiling in the sun.

“We did,” James replied from his own chair.

“We’re officially adults.”

“ _You’re_ officially an adult. I’m still only seventeen.”

Thomas snorted, pushing up his aviators and smirking at his friend. “Sorry, I forgot, your mommy said you didn’t have to do kindergarten, so you _didn’t_ ,” he teased.

James smacked him with a towel.

That had been eleven years ago, and somehow Thomas still remembered every word.

Maybe his brain just understood that it _simply wouldn’t do_ to forget a single moment of the first time he’d ever met the most important person in his life.

He glanced over at James, relaxed in his chair, his nose deep in a book titled _The Princeton Field Guide to Dinosaurs_ —Thomas was _sure_ James had read it at least five times, he’d read every dinosaur book in both the school and public libraries.

For once, Thomas didn’t say a word.

As always, James understood. His eyes never left the page, but somehow his hand found its way into Thomas’, and he gave it a light squeeze.

Thomas felt the tension he hadn’t previously known he’d been carrying seep from his bones.

&&&

“This is it,” Thomas said as he pushed open the door. “Welcome home, Jem.”

The dorm was tiny—most dorms were—with a twin bed on either side of the room and two desks pressed against the farthest wall. There was a sink, two closets, and the walls were painted a sort of soul-sucking beige.

It looked absolutely _horrible_.

Thomas was _ecstatic_.

They’d told their parents they’d move in themselves, just the two of them. They’d cited a need for ‘time to settle in’, packed everything up, and headed west.

Now they were here.

“I call the right side!” Thomas said, tossing one of his bags on the bed. James rolled his eyes in the doorway before following his friend.

“They’re the _same_ , Thomas.”

“You just say that because you didn’t get the right side.”

James carefully placed his own box next to his bed. “I say we make our beds and start to unpack first, and then we can do the rest of the housekeeping stuff when we go to get lunch,” he suggested.

“Sounds good,” Thomas agreed. He quickly opened one of his boxes and pulled out his purple sheets.

“You’re kidding me,” James deadpanned from across the room.

“Never, dearest Madison,” Thomas drawled in reply, wiggling his eyebrows.

James’ laughter filled the tiny room, and Thomas decided that it already felt more like home.

**

Thomas was drunk. Really, really drunk.

James had _no idea_ what to do.

He’d been around drunk people before, of course. He’d been around a drunk Thomas before, even.

He’d never seen Thomas _this_ wasted.

He guessed he could understand it. It was the first party they’d gone to on campus, and beer was flowing like water. They were young, the night had been young, and the atmosphere of the party lent itself well to getting blackout drunk and making poor life choices.

One thing had led to another, and before James knew it, he had a completely trashed Thomas Jefferson sprawled out on his lap like a cat.

“James, James, Jemmy, Jaaaaaaaa—”

“ _Yes_ , Thomas?” James asked, carefully plucking the half-empty beer can from Thomas’ hand. James didn’t drink. He found it made him nauseous and irritable and tired, and that he typically had a better time sober than inebriated.

Besides, _someone_ had to make sure Thomas didn’t get himself killed.

“I-I love you, y’know that? I love you _so much_ ,” Thomas said earnestly, staring up at James with wide eyes.

James huffed. “I love you too, Thomas,” he replied. Thomas looked as if the words were bringing him close to tears, and James rolled his eyes. You’d have thought Thomas had downed a whole bottle of Russian Standard instead of a few shitty beers and whatever was in that punch.

“You—you’re so _pretty_ ! And _smart_ , and _funny_ , and just—you’re so _amazing_ , Jemmy, and—”

“Okay, I think it’s time to go back to the dorm,” James quickly interrupted, hefting Thomas to his feet—a truly remarkable feat when one considered that Thomas had a good ten inches and seventy-five pounds on James—and leading him to the door.

“You’re the _best_ , Jem. The _best_.”

“I’m glad you think so, Thomas.”

“I’ve _always_ thinked so, I promise!”

“Thought, Thomas. You’ve always _thought_ so.”

“Yeah, that.”

James finally managed to steer them out of the crowd of sweaty, smelly, hormonal college kids and into the cool September air. “Okay, just a bit further and we’ll be in the dorms, okay? I’ll get you some water and make you some of that easy-mac stuff, and then you’re going to _bed_ ,” he said.

Thomas just giggled and rested his head on James’. “You’re so _nice_ ,” he whispered.

“Thank you, Thomas,” James replied in fond exasperation.

They eventually made it back to their dorm, and James helped Thomas into his pajamas before handing him his food and water. Thomas ate slowly, one macaroni at a time, and James sat opposite of him, making sure he didn’t choke on a noodle or something equally ridiculous. After what felt like hours, Thomas finished his “meal”, tossing the trash vaguely in the direction of the bin.

James decided he’d get it in the morning. “Okay, bed,” he insisted, pulling back Thomas’ blankets.

“Wait!” Thomas protested, and James turned to stare at him.

“What is it _now_ —”

He was thoroughly silenced by Thomas’ mouth on his own. He made a soft ‘hmph!’ noise in surprise before feeling himself relax.

Before he knew what was happening, he had his hands in Thomas’ curls and Thomas’ arms around his waist, pulling him closer.

It felt _right_ , it felt _natural_.

It felt like _coming home_.

And then James remembered himself, remembered the state Thomas was in, remembered what was at stake, and yanked himself away as if burned.

The look of hurt on Thomas’ face tore at James’ insides. “Goodnight, Thomas,” James said shakily.

He prayed Thomas wouldn’t remember this in the morning.

**

He didn’t.

James told himself it was for the best.

When Thomas passed out early that evening, slouched over his books and his curls all askew, James pressed the lightest of kisses to his head, and vowed to say silent.

 _It was for the best_.

**

‘The best’ fucking hurt.

It hurt when he saw Thomas in the mornings, hair rumpled and eyes tired as he trudged to the communal kitchen.

It hurt when Thomas came up behind him with an Egg McMuffin after his eight a.m. class, grinning in the sun.

It hurt when they studied together, sitting in the library or their room or wherever, bouncing ideas and conversation off of each other, easy as breathing.

It hurt when Thomas got all dressed up for a night on the town, in his outrageous purple button-ups and stupidly tight skinny jeans.

It hurt when Thomas fell asleep at night, curled up under his blankets.

It _hurt_.

For God knew how long, there’d been something clawing at the pit of James’ stomach, something he’d never had the name for.

Now, he had the name for it.

And _damn_ if it didn’t hurt.

**

New Year's Eve crept up on them. With all the stress of their first semester finals, Christmas, traveling and studying and rushing about at a million miles an hour, the approaching end of the year didn’t give them any mind.

They found themselves at James’ house, still decorated for Christmas, hiding in James’ room while the party raged outside.

Thomas was holding an old picture frame—he and James, ages nine and ten, with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, a sparkler in each of their free hands. “My God,” he muttered, “we were so _young_.”

“You’re only eighteen, Thomas. We’re not _old_ ,” James reminded him.

“Sure feels like it sometimes.”

James sighed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, it does.”

Thomas turned to face him, a peculiar look in his eye. “You’ve always been there,” he said, bluntly. “Through everything— _everything_ —you’ve just… _been there_ . The unshakable James Madison, always willing to put up with my bullshit, always by my side—always _on_ my side. You… you’re incredible, James.”

James diverted his eyes. “No more incredible than anyone else,” he said.

“You’re wrong,” Thomas countered.

“Maybe,” James relented. He couldn’t help but scoot a hair’s width closer to Thomas.

They sat silently for another moment, but the peace was eventually broken by the rambunctious cries of people shouting _ten, nine, eight_ …

“Well, this is it,” Thomas whispered.

“So it would seem,” James agreed.

Neither of them mentioned the shrinking distance between them.

 _Seven, six, five_ …

“Another year, huh?” Thomas asked.

 _Four_.

James nodded. “You and me.”

 _Three_.

“Happy New Year, James Madison.”

 _Two_.

“Happy New Year, Thomas Jefferson.”

 _One_.

Their lips met.

It was soft, it was sweet, it was gentle. It was the sort of kiss you read about in fairy tales, the sort that wakes the princess from her magical slumber or heals some cursed ailment.

To put it simply, it was _home_.

The separated after a moment, content to spend the first seconds of the new year in each other’s arms.

The path had been laid that morning on the playground, all those years ago. A long and occasionally broken road, but it had led them here.

And neither of them would change it for the world.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it <3  
> it might be shit because i wrote it in two days  
> b u t  
> i hope you liked it anyway


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